A Man Named Dave

that something was brewing below the surface. During July 1990, two situations brought matters to a head. I discovered Patsy had a credit card under my name. After Patsy swore up and down that she had received the card out of the blue one day in the mail, she gave me the phone number to the company. As I dialed the number, Patsy snatched the receiver and slammed it back down. “I already called and talked to them … and they said it was okay if we’re a little late.”
    I knew the only way to resolve this was to play out her game. When I probed for the person’s name, Patsy could only come up with “Richard”. She refused to give me a last name, position, or extension number. It seemed to be another obvious lie, but Patsy was steadfast to the point that even when I called in front of her, she acted as if everything was as she claimed. After explaining my situation to several people, finally I was able to speak to an account supervisor. He confirmed a signature on the card, and said no payments had been made since the card was activated months ago. Apologizing like a child, I informed the supervisor of what had actually happened and promised to make amends. I also begged him not to expose the issue to anyone outside his organization.
    “Why?” I fumed as I hung up the phone. “You … you could have told me the truth … You could have gotten a card under your own name. Why do you have to always drag me into your –?”
    Patsy jumped in. “Duh! I can’t get a card! You know that. I had credit problems.”
    I could not believe Patsy’s gall. “That’s not the point. The card, the spending, calling some guy from the card company whose name you can’t remember, telling you it’s okay for you to be late with a payment! With you it never ends. It’s always something. I’m tired of being lied to. The games, the constant deceptions. You think, you really believe I’m that stupid? Feeding me a line that if you call some guy, from some company, it’s gonna wave some magic wand over what you did and make things better? It’s a matter of responsibility, and I’m tired of cleaning everything up!” I turned to leave the room, wondering if I was right to be accusing her. Had Patsy really deceived me or had I signed for a credit card long ago that I had forgotten about? Things were moving too fast for me to ever get to the bottom of it. I stopped as I approached the door. I spun back toward Patsy. “Do you know or even care that I have another security review coming up? If the air force finds out about this, they can pull me from –”
    “From what?” Patsy lashed out. “I’m tired of air force this, air force that. You’re so full of it! You ain’t doin’ nothin’ and you know it. You never did. You ain’t shit; you’re enlisted. You just tried to make out that you’re a part of something just to keep me in line, but I’m telling you this: I can do what I want when I want, and no one is going to tell me what to do!
    “You wanna be truthful? You wanna talk about honesty? Come on, let’s be honest! Tell me about you! Come on, I’m waiting, tell me!”
    For almost a year as the SR-71 was being phased out, I had signed paperwork swearing to absolute secrecy about my involvement with the Stealth program, even though the aircraft had already been revealed to the public. Even after our squadron’s involvement with the F-117 during its debut in Panama, as part of Operation Just Cause, we had been warned again of repercussions if anyone said anything, including being threatened with imprisonment.
    To compound matters, I hadn’t told Patsy about some of the organizations I was working for outside the air force. When I had tried to before, she was either too bored or simply wasn’t interested. In my heart I had hoped Patsy would discover for herself the feeling of assisting others in need, and then, maybe, we could work as a couple, through issues that still seemed to tug at us both. But even after accepting the award from the state’s first lady, Patsy still had not made the connection.
    So, standing by the door with Patsy’s face turning red, I knew if there was a hypocrite in the house it was me. Taking a deep breath, I meekly asked, “Talk to me, what’s going on? Do you think we are having problems with money?”
    “That’s your problem,” she said. “That’s all you care about is money, money, money!”
    “If there’s anything you want, if it really means that much to you, I’ll get it for you. You know that. It may take some time, but if